


frosted sunrise

by orphan_account



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy, War & Peace (TV 2007), War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Danatole, M/M, also everyone is disillusioned lol, idk man, theres some mentions of homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-30 02:36:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11454219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “i think i need to clear my head, fedya.” the room is still, and it almost feels as if the snowflakes catch in mid-air, suspended by their own chill.--modern au, just a 1000+ drabble. anatole takes a morning drive, fedya is dragged along, the snow remains apathetic.





	frosted sunrise

there’s something tragic in anatole’s eyes. it’s hard to see, and even harder to place, but dolokhov has become somewhat of an expert at honing in on it. it’s the sort of gleam that draws sailors to their deaths, the one that shouts “i’m drowning, and you’re the last swimmer on earth”, the one that has made it impossible for dolokhov to leave. on top of this, anatole carries an air of challenge about him, as if his very existence is just to dare others to try and thwart his wild ideas. but they rarely did, and why would they? anatole was the personification of daring acts of stupidity, but ones that left you breathless, begging for more as you stare at the smoke tracing its way down the sky in the firework aftermath. 

dolokhov has gotten up early, as usual, a side effect of a life spent preparing to follow in his family’s legacy. he comes from a long line of soldiers, men willing to die on the field, bleeding hearts for all things russian and unfeeling. and there’s anatole, sleeping beside him, chest with ribs pronounced steadily rising and falling. outside, the snow kisses the ground ever so softly, and dolokhov mirrors that action, bringing soft lips to brush anatole’s stubble. dolokhov smiles, brushes anatole’s golden locks out of his eyes, being careful to mind the healing black-eye, and takes a moment to pause. 

anatole stirs, his eyes unfocused as he blinks them open, stretching the sleep away. his gaze turns to dolokhov, and dolokhov’s smile dampens. the next moment, anatole is sitting up in order to hold him close. “i think i need to clear my head, fedya.” the room is still, and it almost feels as if the snowflakes catch in mid-air, suspended by their own chill. 

“yeah, yeah, sure, i understand.” dolokhov doesn’t understand, yet he will not allow his tone to show it. he watches as anatole drags himself from his throne of pillows and blankets, as if it is a chore too great to bother himself with. or maybe it’s as if he simply doesn’t have the energy to do even a simple task. with anatole, it’s hard to tell when his self-loathing or self-worship is fueling his actions. dolokhov just stands, in awe. 

“i’m going for a ride, fedya.” anatole reaches down to pull yesterday’s shirt off the floor, tugging it over his body. dolokhov remains like marble. anatole grabs a pack of smokes and his keys off the nightstand before turning to dolokhov. “aren’t you coming?”

“be there in a sec, tolya,” dolokhov says.

“okay,” anatole replies.

anatole runs his fingers through his hair, knuckles bruised and one quite possibly fractured- he’s been meaning to see a doctor about it, but hasn’t seemed to have the time. he slides his sunglasses on, for the world is impossibly bright to him at the moment, and slips out of the back door. his newest sports car waits for him in the garage limelight, and anatole impatiently dives into the front seat, car keys already coaxing the mighty engine to roar.

dolokhov takes more than a moment to get ready. he means to be looking for a clean shirt, but instead he keeps getting entranced by the snow, of how delicate it seems in such a stark contrast to everything he’s known so far. it takes him back to days when all he worried about was coming home from school, feeding his dog, popping a movie in the vhs and falling asleep to that same snow. he chuckles as he finds something to wear. how innocent those days really were. 

dolokhov is still pulling on one of his various hoodies as he eyes anatole from the rolled-down window. he’s already smoking a cigarette, and this doesn’t phase dolokhov in the slightest. he maneuvers around the hood to pull open the passenger car door, sitting inside and shutting himself in. anatole does not wait for a seatbelt click before he drives off. 

the windows are down despite the chilled russian air surrounding them, but neither men care that much. both of them are well-accustomed to this by now. the radio is playing some american 80s song faintly, yet neither of them change the station or turn it down. dolokhov looks to anatole. anatole looks to the road.

anatole’s eyes are fixed on the long winding stretches of asphalt, speeding on straight patches and slowing down towards curves. it’s a sort of dance, one where anatole reminds himself that he has the power to overcome friction lingering in air, and overcome the very notion of law itself. he has money, he has charm, why should he suffer for the sins of the many? he will allow himself this.

dolokhov dares not speak. he knows anatole is playing a game, one where the first person to dare utter a word, to disturb this dance is the loser, and he has always been wildly competitive. dolokhov does not smoke, which is a feat in and of itself given who he spends his time with. he believes it a grotesque hobby, an ugly thing that yellows teeth and rots lungs. anatole does not press him to do so. 

the car slithers its way across the mountain until they have reached a viewing area nestled squarely between the sky and the rocky face. anatole slips the car into the sole parking space, removing the keys and stepping into the silence of a russian morning. dolokhov steps outside and takes his place on the park bench, waiting until anatole joins him. the sun is peeking out from behind mounds of snow and rock, showering the snow with a radiant glow, and the sight is one that a picture would not justify. 

anatole sits next to him, and is hesitant, but allows dolokhov to drape his arm over his shoulders. “we’ll get out of here, one day.” dolokhov lost their imaginary game. that does not seem to matter. “your father can’t keep you here forever. you have rights.”

“what rights?” anatole’s voice does not hold hostility. it just holds tiredness. “the same rights that stopped that man from punching me? the same ones that had me sitting in a jail? what rights, fedya?”

there is more silence. dolokhov tugs anatole closer. “you’re still a human being, tolya. once you save up enough-”

“my father will freeze my account and demand to know why i purchased two plane tickets to america.” anatole sighs. his breath freezes and he watches it float away. “fedya, i don’t want to talk about this. i just want to be here right now.” 

“i know,” dolokhov says.

the sun looks apathetically on at them, uncaring of sorrows or weariness. it’s amazing how everything in russia can feel so rigid, so frosted, so cold. and still, the snow falls, the black-eye remains, and dolokhov’s lips gently meet the top of anatole’s hair. life goes on. anatole finds it a curse. dolokhov finds it a blessing. the sun remains uncaring.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback would be SO AMAZING because i'm always looking to improve my writing! thank you so much! if you want me to write more danatole, let me know that as well!! <3 have an awesome day!


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